


Binded

by Harrukawa



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Faith can’t come up with titles, I Tried, It sounded bad in my head and it’s even worse of paper, M/M, Panic attacks (sorta?), Richie/Stanley friendship, Slow Burn, Stanley has an existential crisis, Stanley likes birds but I know nothing about them, Stenbrough, i don’t even know why I’m doing this, im so sorry y’alls, it’s a....vampire au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-02-07 18:09:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12846678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harrukawa/pseuds/Harrukawa
Summary: Stanley freezes at the sight. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, and suddenly all the pieces from the past week begin fit together. Something clicks within Stanley.He wants to run, to scream, to yell, but he only stands there, frozen.The boy has fangs.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey!! Sorry this is so jumbled, I’ve written it over the course of like a week since I’ve been super busy. I’m not all that proud of it, I’ve never been good at setting stories up, but maybe it’ll get better lol

"Mrs. Douglas? May I go down to the nurse?"

Mrs Douglas looks up from her papers with a sour expression, clearly upset with being disrupted. Her features soften when she notices Stanley standing at the edge of her desk, eyes suddenly weary and a tad guilty.

"Something wrong, Stanley?" She asks, voice full of genuine concern. He'd always liked Mrs. Douglas, Ben did too, but Richie wasn't particularly fond of her or her class. Stanley wasn't exactly sure why, when he asked him he made up a whole story about how she was "definitely a robot," clearly some bullshit to get Stanley off his case.

Stanley just assumed Richie found it harder to concentrate in her class, since almost all they did was read out of the ancient textbooks that students had vandalized for years now. And although Richie was definitely one of those students, Stanley could see how that could be boring.

"Just feeling a little lightheaded." He supplies, glancing at the papers on her desk. Her fingers are wrapped loosely around a red ink pen. "I already finished my work," he adds, as if that'll persuade her any more.

Apparently it works, because Mrs. Douglas excuses him with a small smile, which he returns happily. It disappears as soon as he steps out of the classroom, feeling completely worn down from today. Sure, maybe lying to get out of class was a little un-Stanley of him— a word Richie patented, in his words, meaning "something actually cool, so nothing like Stanley"— but he just wanted to take a nap and go home. Henry wouldn't shut his mouth in health, a class Stanley had dreaded taking, he didn't have any classes with his friends, and frankly it was taking a toll on him today.

He starts towards the nurse's office, hoping she'd believe him if he came up with an excuse to lie down. It couldn't hurt to try.

As he rounds the corner of the hallway, he's suddenly hit with a wave of nausea, instantly making him freeze on the spot. His eyes burn, his stomach twisting as vomit rises in the back of his throat. It takes all the energy in him not to double down and throw up right there, but for better judgement he quickly covers his mouth with his hand.

He can't move.

Stanley steadies his shaky form by placing his free hand on the wall beside him. A million thoughts swirl through his head, none of them seeming to be coherent, all just a blur of concern.

He doesn't know how long he stands there, or why nobody passed him or saw him, but eventually he lowers his hand from his mouth, and slowly drops his trembling hand from the wall.

He pauses for a brief moment, either debating what to do, or just seeing if he could stay standing without falling over.

 _Okay, now I really need to go the the nurse's office_ , seems to be the only thought that makes sense, so he sticks with it. He hesitantly takes a step forward, feeling weaker than ever, slowly but surely making his way there.

Stanley hated being sick. He hated the very idea of it. It wasn't emetophobia, per say, he just heated the feeling that went along with it. And he wasn't about to hurl his guts out in the middle of the hallway, can you imagine—

Stanley's thrown out of his thoughts when something grabs his shoulder, harshly ripping him back into reality. He has to cover his mouth again at the sudden jerking motion, when he's pushed— more like _thrown_ — into a small space, breath hitching while his vision is completely engulfed in darkness. It all happens so quickly he doesn't have any time to react, his back slams against what he assumes are shelves before he can steady himself. And it _hurts_ , he realizes, _it really hurts._

"What the fuck—?" Stanley pathetically whimpers, completely disoriented in the darkness, "Richie I swear to god if that's you—" And is cut off when something grabs hold of his arm, squeezing so tightly pain shoots all the way up his shoulder. Another, louder, scream escapes him, his heart pounding louder and breath quickening each second. Something about it seems so _dangerous_ , so unnatural that the only thing Stanley can think is, _get away right now_. He jerks his whole body away, and when the grip on his arm is gone he instantly tries to move, reaching his arms out blindly for the door handle.

"Ah, I-I—" a unknown voice comes from behind him, startling him even further. Stanley tries to run, but realizes his foot is caught on something a little too late, tripping and falling onto the floor painfully. It makes a huge crashing noise, a sound like bottles and glass hitting the floor. He's shaking, and as he places his hands on the ground to get up off of the ground, something sharp digs into both of his hands.

"Fuck.. fuck," Stanley cries, panting, scared beyond belief. His hands sting, and after a moment, he realizes they're bleeding. "Who's there?" He asks, voice small and shaky.

There's no response, only heavy, raspy  breathing from a few feet behind him. "Who's there?" He asks again through gritted teeth, carefully pushing himself off the ground into a sitting position, the tiny glass pieces digging further into his hands.

Maybe it's Henry, or Patrick or something— it wouldn't be the first time they scared him shitless, but something about the breathing chills him to the bone. It's still so, so dark, and he really never had the energy for any of this in the first place.

Everything goes quiet, the breathing snuffed out like a flame in an instant, leaving only the sound of his heartbeat in his ears. The uneasiness is back again, and he suddenly feels so powerless and lost.

“Please don’t.. please don’t hurt me..” he whispers, hands pressed to the ground despite the pain.

Stanley goes to speak again, but suddenly an arm wraps around his torso, strong and cold and suffocating. He instinctively jerks his whole body away again, using all of his strength to pull, but a shuttering gasp escapes him when he’s just pulled back again. There’s something sharp placed against his neck when he’s pulled back, and a hand clasps over his mouth before he can get even react. Stanley tried to scream, but it comes out a muffled sob.

_I’m going to die._

The sharp thing against his neck is pressed down as another choked sob escapes him, hot tears rolling down his cheeks as he kicks his feet like a petulant child. It feels almost like a pinch, and quickly hot, sticky liquid flows down his neck, and something hot is pressed against the wound.

Stanley tries, desperately, to claw the fingers off of his mouth, writhing and twisting in pain while he does so. The sides of his vision begin to blur exponentially, and after a few moments his eyes begin to droop. And oh god— he’s so dizzy, he’s only half-certain the room isn’t actually spinning.

He can’t hear anything but his heart beating loudly in his ears, or see anything but the dim light of the hallway spilling in from the cracks of the closed door.

_When were the lights turned on outside?_

He can’t breathe. The dizzy feeling from earlier was nothing compared to this, Stanley tries again to pry the fingers away, but he is practically powerless.

It doesn’t take long before his chest feels heavy, and the darkness fully closes in around him. His hands fall to his sides in defeat.

The hand around Stanley’s neck drops, too, but that’s the last thing he remembers.

•

When Stanley wakes up, he immediately panics, his hand instantly goes up to his neck. His fingers come in contact with cotton, and for a second he stupidly wonders if he’d suddenly turned cotton.

He was spending way too much time around Richie.

Of course, he hadn’t turned into cotton, it’s only a bandage.

After he calms down, he glances around the room. It’s dusty and small, no bigger than a walk-in pantry, lined with shelves on 2 of the four walls. Random objects are strewn everywhere, he supposes in an effort to get away he’d knocked a few things over.

A storage closet, or rather _the_ storage closet, the one he’d passed out in. The only difference is that the fluorescent lightbulb above him is on and humming. He’s still sitting, and when he shifts to stand up, everything aches. He grits his teeth to stifle the grunt of pain that escapes him, but it still ends up sounding loud in his ears.

He tries again, slowly, and eventually he’s up on his feet again. There’s a foul taste in his mouth, and Stanley begins to wonder how long he’d been out. This only causes him to wonder about a lot of other things.

What happened to him? Who attacked him? And who on earth patched him up? Had they just left him here?

_How am I not dead?_

It’s a scary thought, really, but the reality of it crashes down on him.

What if he had, though? Died without ever going to college, ever having a girlfriend, or ever telling his friends how much he appreciated them. There were still so many things he hadn’t done, so many things he took for granted.

It could’ve been gone, just like that.

•

He doesn’t remember the week after that all that much. It goes by in a blur, and frankly Stanley doesn’t like to talk about it.

He finds out he’d only been unconscious in the closet for 2 hours, and when he came back out of it, school had already been let out.

When he found his friends after leaving, they didn’t mention the tear stains on his cheeks or puffy red eyes. They didn’t mention the bandage on his neck, or ask where he’d been, and Stanley appreciated it.

He doesn’t tell them about what happened.

Stanley didn’t tell them the first day because he was so out of it he couldn’t think straight, when they’d ask him a question he’d say ‘I’m sorry, what?’, Richie would make a dumb joke, and they’d all laugh.

He doesn’t tell them the second day because as time goes on, the more it seems like a dream. Like, no way someone attacked him at school and nobody found out about it. No _way_ there wasn’t a trace of blood on his clothes or anywhere else. That can’t possibly be real.

Stanley would never admit it but he was scared of the inevitability of it all. If he were to believe what happened to him he’d have to believe it could happen again, that he’d almost died, and that he still has no idea what happened.

But the wound is real.

He finds that out the second day, a Tuesday, after he is let out of school. He stands in front of the mirror with trembling hands, and slowly peels off the bandage.

Its there. Bloody, still, and there.

It’s small, only two perfectly circular holes, but deep, Stanley gags at the sight.

He covers it as quickly as he can, but that doesn’t stop him from thinking about it.

The third day and fourth days are a living hell. He can’t stop thinking about the cuts, how bizzare they are.

What sort of weapon can make that wound? He tries to go back to the closet to check if anything like it was left there, but he panics before he even steps through the door.

Maybe the better question is, what’s wrong with him? But he doesn’t care to even think of it.

On the fifth day, Richie pulls him aside at school.

“You look like shit, man, what’s wrong?”

Stanley knows he doesn’t mean it that way, but his voice still comes out sounding bitter. “ _Thanks_ , I try.”

Richie gives him a look, and Stanley looks down. He doesn’t want to try and decipher it.

”Stanley, you can tell us anything, you know?” Richie’s voice is suddenly uncharacteristically quiet, which only makes him more uncomfortable.

After a moment of silence, Stanley actually thinks about it. He thinks about Richie’s offer, and for the first time that week, puts everything else aside.

“I’ll..,” he hesitates, wondering if this is a good idea or not. Maybe it wasn’t, but if he didn’t tell Richie he’d annoy the hell out of him until he did. He always did that, and usually Stanley found it somewhat endearing, but it would only make things worse in this situation. “Tell you after school.”

Richie grins, and pats him on the back. “The right choice, my good man!” He says.

Stanley immediately regrets his decision.

Nevertheless, he tells himself he won’t chicken out this time. He’ll tell him, they’d both laugh at how dumb it sounds and Stanley will be okay.

That plan goes awry as soon as the bell rings for lunch.

He steps out of the classroom like always, goes down the stairs, but something stops him.

That same damn storage closet stops him.

It’s not like he wants to stop in front of it, but something draws him there. He can’t explain it, or expect anyone to understand, but it’s there. And very real.

He doesn’t dare reach for the handle, just stands there, waiting.

Waiting for what, he didn’t know, but eventually it’s just him in the halls, staring.

Stanley gathers the courage to finally open it, but before his hands can touch the cold metal the door swings open.

A pale boy, either Stanley’s age or older, stands there with his hand on the knob, looking just as shocked as Stanley felt. His eyes are a piercing blue, and they seem to be staring straight through Stanley. His mouth hangs open in shock.

Stanley freezes at the sight. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, and suddenly all the pieces from the past week begin fit together. Something clicks within Stanley.

He wants to run, to scream, to yell, but he only stands there, frozen.

The boy has fangs.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> summary of this chapter: stanley is a drama queen  
> I’m reading the book right now and he’s barely in it so I have no clue if that is ooc, but I’m fairly certain he loves pretending things aren’t real. The book is wild though lol I can’t tell if I like it

Dear lord he must be dreaming.

The boy, as if sensing the cause of Stanley's panic, slaps his hands over his mouth. This snaps him out of his trance, Stanley quickly finds himself again.

He backs up from the door, mind racing and heart thundering, almost tripping on his own feet as he does so, and bolts.

_A vampire?_

He runs as fast as he can manage, his thoughts jumbling and swirling in his head as he rounds the corners of the halls, to the exit.

_I must be going insane._

He's he's only starting to realize that he'll never make it, he's too far, the boy was surely chasing after him—

When a hand grabs him by the collar.

He makes a choked sound, his hands immediately reaching up to pry it off. And it's happening all over again, he's being dragged, dragged back into that horrible closet. He's pushed into it, back hitting the shelves against the walls with a thud. He doesn't notice it, because the boy is standing in front of him again. The door slams.

There's an awful silence with the boy just standing there, a pained expression on his face. Maybe he's gathering words, but the fear in Stanley's gut and lack of breath in his lungs seem to be the only things he can think about.

"Please don’t hurt me,” Stanley coughs, voice raspy and breathy. It's pathetic, him hunched in the corner of that dirty supply closet, not even having enough strength to stand straight anymore, begging for mercy at something that could easily kill him. Something that _almost_ killed him. Luckily, this is most likely _not happening_ , he'd wake up eventually with the two cuts on his neck gone and perfectly safe.

The boy inches towards him, seemingly ignoring him, a different expression on his face Stanley can't read. Stanley instinctively curls into himself, trying to get as far away from him as possible. _Deep down you know it's real you know it Stanley—_

Surprisingly, the boy stops in his tracks. He doesn't try to touch him, or get any closer for that matter. He simply winces at the action, then speaks, quietly, "I-I'm nuh-nuh-not going t-to hurt y-yuh-you." Stanley has to look down to avoid seeing his teeth again.

 _Bullshit_. Stanley thinks, shoulders tensing. _You almost killed me,_ he wants to say, _I almost died!_

"I d-didn't muh-mean t-to—" He says, the words seemingly taking all of the energy out of him. He doesn't seem to have much, Stanley quickly observes, he's thin and shaking and sickly _pale_.

The thought make his stomach lurch, and his hands clammy. Suddenly it all feels so _real_ , the bite on his neck, the fangs, but also horribly bizarre at the same time. His anger and confusion from earlier quickly subsides, and he's left feeling empty.

 _A vampire_. His mind reminds him once more, over and over, although it doesn't click for some time. _This boy is a vampire._

“Ruh-Really.. I’m n-not g-going to hurt y-you.” He repeats, like he can sense Stanley’s distrust. The boy's eyes dart to the bandage on his neck, suddenly looking like he was going to vomit too. "O-Oh my G-Guh-God," his hand covers his mouth again, "D-Did I—?" His voice is so genuine and worried Stanley is left shocked. _There’s no way he’s telling the truth.. but..?_

Stanley slowly nods, his hand reaching up to lightly brush the rough material stuck to his neck, almost feeling embarrassed because of it.

The boy's hand lowers, mouth ajar so his fangs are visible once again. Stanley doesn't look down this time.

"I'm— I'm s-so sorry. I was j-just s-so h-hu-h—" His face twists in frustration, fists curling at his sides. "Hungry." He mutters.

 _But that means._.

“Are you still hungry?" He finds himself asking, voice just barely a whisper. Alarms seem to sound in his head, he _knows_ this can't be right, but the words tumble out of his mouth before he can even comprehend them.

The boy hesitates, suddenly diffident, looking anywhere but Stanley's eyes. His fists unfurl, a sign of defeat, and he nods.

"B-But I won’t h-hurt you. P-Promise." He takes a step back from him, wearily, as if it pains him to do so. He's still not looking at Stanley. "I br-brought you h-here t-to—

"I can. I mean.. you can.." Stanley's mouth interrupts, alarms sounding even louder in his head when he finds himself holding out his arm. _WHAT ARE YOU DOING?_ His mind screams.

The boy shrinks away from it, looking shocked. His breathing picks up exponentially, and he finally looks up to see Stanley's expression. "Wuh-What?"

"If you're hungry you can.." Stanley speaks slowly, like this is normal and definitely not the weirdest and most dangerous thing he'd ever done. But there's something inside of him, something pushing him to help this boy. He must be starving, he hadn't.. _eaten_ in a week. "Suck my blood. That's what you did earlier, right?"

He swallows, visibly uncomfortable. "Not.. o-on pu-purpose."

"Right. Well, I don't know how this works. Just do it." Stanley squeezes his eyes shut, still dangling his arm out. _Hope I don't die._

"Y-You're not s-scared of m-me?" The boy's curious voice replies, a bit louder, Stanley assumes he had taken a step forward.

Yes, his mind says, but the feeling of fear had long since dissolved. Maybe he wasn't so much as scared of the _boy_ , but more of what he could _do_. "It doesn't matter if I'm scared of you, you're hungry, so.. do it."

"I c-couldn't." But there's something in his voice, longing, perhaps, that says otherwise.

Stanley shakes his arm, eyes still shut tight. "My arm's getting tired."

The boy makes a noise, something between a gasp and a whimper. "Y-You didn't t-tell a-anyone about w-what happened?"

" _Just do it already_!“ Stanley hisses, growing nervous. “And don’t get any blood on my shirt.”

“O-Okay,” He says, but nothing happens. “...P-Promise to t-tell me i-if I hurt y-you.”

Stanley makes a hum of agreement, praying the boy would just do it already so he could forget this ever happened. He doesn’t dare open his eyes, fearing he’d change his mind. What was he even doing?

There’s a beat of dreadful silence, the only sound is the shuffling of the other boy. His soft hand finally takes Stanley’s— tenderly, bizarrely, considering how forcefully he’d been thrown in this closet. He’s forced out of his thoughts when there’s a sharp pain in his wrist, and the smell of copper stings his nostrils a few moments later. He tries his hardest to remain still and keep his expression blank, glad he decided to keep his eyes shut so he didn’t have to see his blood. The boy’s lips are on his skin, and when he lets out a sigh of absolute relief, Stanley shivers. He must be _really_ hungry, he tells himself, as if it’ll keep him calm.

The cold and sharp object is pressing against his wrist again, at least Stanley knows it’s actually fangs and not a knife. _Like that’s any better_.

He’s so concentrated on staying still he doesn’t realize how long it’s been until the same feeling of lightheadedness returns. He ignores it, for no particular reason. Something inside him just tells him to. And besides, it doesn’t hurt _that_ much. 

Stanley opens one eye, peeking, just as the boy is drawing his tongue over the wound, slow and deliberate and _taunting_. Stanley jolts at the sight, and the boy’s eyes meet his momentarily, piercing blue and so much different from before. He lets go of Stanley’s arm. He’s sure his face is completely red, the warmth in his cheeks burning as one thought plays in his mind:

_What the hell is he doing?_

Stanley opens both eyes now, and brings his arm closer to him, inspecting his wrist instead of looking at the boy. The place where he had touched it almost burns, but in a strange way. He is saying something about it healing faster, but Stanley doesn’t hear it when he gets sight of the wound.

There’s two cuts, identical to the ones on his neck. They’re not bleeding, despite being fresh.

_At least I’m not dead._

The boy touches his shoulder and he is driven out of his thoughts, he rips his eyes away from his wrist to meet his gaze. He’s still pale, but there’s much more color in his face, and he looks much taller— Stanley assumes he’d been hunched over before.

 _Damn, he’s really_ —, he immediately pushes the thought to the back of his mind before he can finish it. He doesn’t know what that would’ve ended with, but it certainly can’t be good.

“T-Thank you,” The boy says, his voice much more confident than before. “Ruh-Really. This i-is the n-nuh-nicest th-thing anyone has e-ever d-done for me.”

“I don’t know about that,” Stanley says quietly, unable to look away from the boy’s eyes. They seem much _brighter_ than before, energized and maybe even.. lovely. “How am I not dead?” He blurts, completely ruining the moment. If there even was one.

“What?” The boy asks, taking his hand away from Stanley’s shoulder. He looks slightly hurt, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“If you were so hungry.. that you didn’t have control over what you were doing, how am I standing here, alive, right now?”

The boy hesitates, seemingly coming to a conclusion in his head. He speaks, much slower, stutter only getting to him once or twice. “I.. don’t know. I d-don’t remember much, but there w-was a force.. a voice.. that s-stopped me. I think.” He shakes his head, as if shaking the thought away, “I-I dunno, s-sounds dumb n-nuh-now that I s-s-say it. I’m r-really sorry.. f-for what huh-happened.”

Stanley takes a deep breath, hand reaching up to brush the bandage on his neck again. “It’s okay, I think. I still can’t believe any of this, I have no idea what I’m doing.” He runs his free hand through his hair, all of the events from the past week running through his head again. Seriously, what _was_ he doing? His hands drop to his sides. 

The boy laughs, quick and surprised, sharp teeth glimmering in the dim light of the bulb above them. He’d never admit it, but it’s almost endearing, when a week ago he’d be running far away from the sight.

“I-I’m Bill.” Bill holds out his hand for Stanley to shake, and Stanley takes it into his own with a moments hesitation.

“Stanley.” He says.

They shake once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I should probably explain myself for being gone for forever but I don’t have an excuse. I guess I procrastinate way too much and I have finals next week lol  
> Thanks for reading! Please comment they make my day!! My tumblr is @saiion if anyone wants to know:)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried something new at the beginning!! Lmk what you think:)

Bill. _Bill_.

Stanley taps his ink pen against his chin at the thought, the tip barely brushing the bottom of his lips, trying his hardest to wrack his memories for that name. Had he heard it before?

He drops his pen from his lips with a little shake of his head. No. It’s best not to think about this anymore.

But how could he not? Stanley guiltily looks down at the arm that resides on his desk, eyes immediately trained to the two dark wounds against his pale wrist. They’re almost like punishments, a reminder of just how real and stupid what he did was. Reminding Stanley of _him_. The ghost of _his_ lips pressed against his wrist will probably forever haunt him, and he despises how often his mind has wandered back to that moment these past two days.

He gently places his pen down on the left side of his notebook, fingers brushing the dark red scabs gingerly. He’d gotten them two days ago, but they seemed to be healing much too fast. He knew about traumatology, Eddie sure loved to talk about things like that, and he did a fair bit of research on it himself.

 _It just doesn’t make sense_. He finds himself thinking, and winces at the word choice. It’s the same thing Richie had said to him after blowing off their meeting he’d promised after school. _“It just doesn’t make sense,”_ He’d said, and Eddie had chimed in, _“We’re worried about you.”_

But Stanley didn’t need that. He hated— _loathed_ being pitied, he was perfectly fine and they knew it. Stanley would tell them after he had it all sorted out, because another thing he loathed was not having the words readied before speaking. Sure, he could figure something out to say, but it just didn’t feel right. Maybe he should ask Bill—

 _No_. Stanley turns his arm over so the cuts aren’t visible, puts his cheek in the palm of his hand, forcing his line of sight towards the window. _It’s not like we know each other, why should I care if he doesn’t want me to tell anyone about his... condition?_

He scoffs into his hand, quickly glancing around to see if anyone had heard him. The only other person in the library is the librarian, Mrs. Starrett, who’s scanning books quietly at her desk. He’d always liked Mrs. Starrett, he assumes all of the kids do, she was quiet and lovely and seemed to enjoy the company of all of the students.

Ben likes her too, Stanley recalls, because she runs the summer reading program. Stanley had never participated in it, but came close one year after the constant nagging from Ben. He’d politely turned him down last minute, saying he wasn’t really one for competitions. That was true, but the real reason was because he’d always been a slow reader and didn’t want to disappoint Ben by not being able to keep up. Plus, the only thing he really enjoyed reading were non-fiction books about animals. Birds, to be more specific.

Stanley wasn’t really sure why birds had enraptured him so easily, perhaps it was the different species or the fascinating way they they live, or that they can fly away from all their problems.. something Stanley envied a whole lot right now.

Mrs. Starrett only glances up at his noise, and when she catches his eye, shoots him a tiny smile. Stanley politely smiles back. They quickly go back to their respective activities, Stanley staring blankly out the window, fidgeting with his pen, and Mrs. Starrett scanning the barcodes on the books. There’s a quiet beep after every book she scans, something he only now notices, which grows into a steady hum the more lost in thought he gets.

A bird shoots past the window—a white throated sparrow, he quickly analyzes, common.

_Is he new or something? Why have I never seen him before? It’s not like I care, but—_

A bird rests on the branch on the oak tree outside. Goldfinch, common. Stanley clicks his pen against the table.

_What if he doesn’t want me to tell anyone?_

Another bird joins the goldfinch. A grackle, one Stanley has already checked off, common.

_That’s ludicrous, Stanley._

A bird flutters up to a nest in the crook of the tree. Flicker, common. A smaller bird suddenly appears in the distance, Stanley has to squint to see it.

_You were literally attacked by a—_

Male cardinal, uncommon.

Stanley jolts at the sight, fingers curling around his bird book on instinct. He clicks his pen again, eyes glued to the fluttering cardinal, already forgetting about everything he’d previously been worried about. He’s just about to stand to get closer to the window when someone taps him on the shoulder. Stanley just about jumps out of his skin, a yelp escaping his mouth before he knows it.

Stanley whips around, and is met bright blue eyes in front of his own. His mouth goes completely dry, because _Bill’s_ here, leaning onto the chair next to him so they’re face to face. “ _S_ - _Stanley_ ,” he murmurs, seemingly unaccustomed to the quietness of the library, “I-I’d like to t-tuh-talk y-you.” He glances up at Mrs. Starrett, giving her an apologetic wave and smile—with his lips, Stanley notices, which makes his stomach churn—apologizing for making Stanley yell. Mrs. Starrett waves her hand, not rudely, dismissing it.

“Oh..Okay.” Stanley takes one last glance at the window, and of course, the cardinal is gone. He tries not to let it bother him too much, as he slowly stands from his chair. Bill draws himself up, then starts off to one of the isles away from Mrs. Starrett’s gaze. Stanley follows sheepishly, clutching his bird book and pen tightly.

When Bill turns back to Stanley, his expression is much more serious, set and concentrated. Stanley freezes in his tracks, suddenly forced to realize how _intimate_ this is. He takes a step back for good measure.

“Hah-Have you.. t-told anyone..?”

Stanley looks down, he can’t help it, unable to hold the intense stare Bill has. No, I haven’t. He really hasn’t, but he doesn’t want to admit that. What kind of person in their right mind wouldn’t tell _anyone_ they’d gotten the blood sucked out of them? _What kind of person willingly follows said person into a corner of a room with no people in sight?_

“No.” His mouth is saying, without any consent from his brain.

Bill visibly relaxes, a sigh escaping his lips. _Cherry red lips. Red_ , a color Stanley had always favored. “Th-Thank Guh-God. Muh-My Dad w-would’ve killed m-me.” And those lips are pulled into a smile, wide and toothy.

The fangs are the things that pull Stanley back to earth. What was he doing, going soft for.. _those_?

“Well, okay. Let’s just go on with our normal lives, and pretend this never happened.” _I’m good at that._ Stanley thinks, trying not to focus on how bizarre those words are.

Bill blinks, lips parted in shock. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, seemingly trying to gather words. “O-Oh— I juh-just t-thought..” he trails off, then shakes his head. “N-Nevermind. T-Thanks for n-not telling anyone. That’s a-all.. I nuh-needed.” He looks like he wants to ask something else, but he keeps his mouth shut.

Stanley wishes he could say he had the patience to wait for Bill to ask, but whenever he talked to Bill he could never think properly, something he was not fond of. He liked being able to have coherent thoughts, thank you very much. So, he doesn’t wait.

“You’re welcome.” It’s clipped, and far from genuine, and Stanley _hates_ it, “See you.” Which he _knows_ is a lie.

But Bill smiles anyway. “See y-you. P-Please don’t tuh-tell anyone.”

So he doesn’t.

He feels awful for being so distant with his friends, but he can’t bring himself to divulge everything.

“I get it, Stan,” Richie said the next day, after rubbing his knuckles against Stanley’s hair, completely ruining all of the work it had taken to make it sit straight this morning. “You’re not ready yet. It’s totally cool.” And he still wanted to punch Richie for messing up his hair, but the comment is so nice he supposes he’ll let it pass.

“Thanks.” Stanley smooths down his curls with his hands as best he can, mostly to distract Richie from the smile growing on his lips. He’d _never, ever_ admit it, but he admires Richie’s way of thinking.

“Hurry up!! I’ve got a date with your sister soon and can’t afford to be late!”

Most of the time.

“Can you be patient for once in your life?” Stanley asks, turning back to the tiny mirror in his locker to fix his curls. He tries to ignore the bandage on his neck. It’s mostly healed now, but there’s still tiny scabs there, and he can’t even bear to look at that.

“ _Seriously_ , Stanley. We’re gonna miss lunch.” Richie says after two seconds of waiting, jumping up and down in his place as people push past.

“Fine.” Stanley slings his bag over his shoulder, and shuts his locker with such force Richie jumps. “Who’s coming today?”

Richie starts forward, one hand on the back of Stanley’s backpack, so he doesn’t get lost or run away, maybe. They talk as they walk towards the cafeteria. “Beverly and Mike, I think. Ben’s doing something in carpentry. I don’t know what Eddie’s doing.”

Stanley rolls his eyes as Richie directs him to their usual table, where Beverly and Mike are already seated. Richie sits in the seat opposite of Stanley, Beverly on Richie’s left, and Mike next to Beverly.

“Hey, Stan.” Mike greets, Beverly makes a humming noise to indicate that she knows he’s there. Her nose is buried in a book, the food in front of her barely touched. She must’ve packed it herself, because it’s thrown together messily. Mike has a school lunch tray in front of him, but most of it is gone already, and he’s leaning back in his chair comfortably.

Which Stanley can never understand, because the cafeteria chairs are cheap and are not good for his back.

“So, so,” Richie begins, already speaking animatedly with his hands. He never gets lunch, claiming he’s too lazy to make his own and the lunch they make you pay for is trash. Stanley always ended up giving him pieces of his own lunch, and the rest of the Losers caught on as well. He’s holding a half-eaten apple, seemingly given to him by Beverly when Stanley was setting his bag on the ground. “Painting class fucking sucks, she’s giving me F’s on assignments just because she doesn’t like me.”

“Can’t imagine why.” Comes Stanley’s response. It’s easy, conversation with them, routine and.. fun. Sometimes.

Mike chuckles, a low and hearty sound. “That’s true.”

“Beep-Beep, Stanley. That hurts my feelings.” Richie grins, taking another bite of Beverly’s apple. “Asshole.” He adds, just to piss Stanley off.

“Please, chew with your mouth closed.” Stanley rolls his eyes again, suddenly not feeling all that hungry. Richie starts rambling to Mike about something Stanley doesn’t follow, so he lets his mind wander to other things. First, he tries to figure out what book Beverly is reading, because she’s holding it too low for him to read the cover. She was never big on reading, much like Richie, so it must be for one of her classes. He’s about to ask, when someone taps him on the shoulder.

_Oh god._

Stanley whips his head up just in time to see Bill sliding into the seat next to him, completely turned to him. His face is pale again, cheeks devoid of color. Stanley is suddenly hit with the realization that he probably hadn’t eaten in 3 days.

“Stanley.” Bill mumbles, and Stanley’d be lying if he said his stomach didn’t flop at the way he says it. _Look at me!_ It says, _No stutter_. Bill eyes dart to his friends across the table, and Stanley feels like punching himself. Yes, running away from all of his problems seemed like such a good idea right now. Bill rips his eyes away, them landing on Stanley’s wrist. He makes a noise of discomfort, but it’s quiet, luckily, or else Richie would be having a field day right now. That’d be enough to make Richie make fun of him for _months_.

“What are you doing here?” Stanley whispers, making sure to keep his face point away from his friends, God help him if any of them could read lips. “I thought I...?” He turns his wrist so the wound was out of sight from Bill, it makes him uncomfortable.

Bill winces, curling into himself at the words. “A-Ah, I k-know.. buh-but.. I-I’m..”

Stanley understands. He doesn’t _want_ to, he wants to go back to his normal life and not have to deal with _this. This_ , whatever it is.

“I..” He starts, unsure of how to finish. _No_ , he wants to say, _leave me alone_. And Bill would be out of his life, but a part of him didn’t want that. A tiny part inside of him _didn’t_ want to stick with routine, because it’s so boring, it’s so fucking boring! But _really? A vampire? Are you insane?_

“P-Puh-Please.”

“Fine. I’ll meet you in the storage closet after lunch.” Stanley murmurs, putting his head in his hands afterwards.

“Th-Thank you. I-I promise I’ll r-repay you.. s-somehow.” Bill must be leaning closer now, because a hand is on his back, and his breath against his ear. It sends a shiver down his spine, and in an instant, it’s gone. He doesn’t have to look up to know Bill had left.

Richie begins to cackle madly, sputtering and coughing so loudly, Stanley is forced to look up. Beverly’s book is shut, hand covering her mouth in shock. Richie’s trying is damned hardest to stay on his chair, hand on Mike’s shoulder as he laughs, laughs at Stanley’s discomfort. Mike’s trying to keep Richie from falling.

“Shut up.” Stanley says, hands curling into fists at his sides.

Richie wipes a tear from his eye, finally having enough strength to sit upright. “God, Stan, why were you being so secretive? Didja really think we’d judge you for getting a boyfriend?”

Stanley’s heart stops, his face burning. _Fuck_ Richie. “He’s not my boyfriend.” He mutters, this time making Beverly laugh. Mike shoots him an apologetic look.

“Yeah, _right_. And that’s not a hickey.” Richie gestures to the bandage on his neck, Stanley’s fingers instantly go up to touch it.

“You’re delusional.” He downright _growls_. What makes everything worse is that it _technically_ is one, Bill had.. _No, you thought you were going to_ die _. That doesn’t count, Richie is just trying to work you up._

He shakes the thought away, trying to get his cheeks to cool down, ignoring Richie’s cackles. He’s the _worst_. Forget what Stanley said earlier about admiring him, Richie’s the _worst_.

“I don’t know, Stanley.. I saw something there when he whispered in your ear.” _Beverly_ giggles, the look of shock on her face completely gone. It’s smug now, resembling Richie’s in a way.

Stanley groans, rubbing his temples with his hands, feeling the beginnings of a migraine. “I’m leaving.” He stands abruptly, zipping his backpack shut. They’re saying something, but he can barely hear them, trying to get out of there as soon as possible.

He dashes out of the cafeteria, making his way towards the storage closet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh this is my favorite one to write but I can’t tell if anyone else likes it lol


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the lack of updates, I’m sort of having trouble finding motivation to do a lot of things haha

_WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST TELL THEM?_ A voice in his head booms as soon as he pushes open the cafeteria doors. It sounds oddly similar to his fathers voice.

 _I dunno._ His mind replies, fingers brushing against the bandage on his neck as he speed-walks down the hallway. _I wasn't thinking_ , it tries to reason.

 _They think you're gay, Stanley_ , his father's voice replies, loud and scary, and by the time he reaches the storage closet he's shaking.

 _Well I'm not. They're my friends, they'll understand once I explain everything._ His voice, sounding even meek in his own head, says. Stanley puts his shaking hand on the cool metal of the doorknob, almost about to go in, when his fathers voice speaks again.

_How will you explain everything when you gave your word to Bill?_

_We're not even friends, or close at all for that matter, I don't have to.._ Stanley freezes as he thinks the words, looking at the ground in shame. _Then I'll.. explain it the best I can. They're my friends._

Would they understand? _Probably_. Would they continue to support him?

_I don't know._

He pushes open the door with a grimace.

The light is on, Bill's standing in the corner with a sheepish look on his face. The closet looks considerably cleaner than the last time, which makes sense, but it helps a little with Stanley's nerves.

"Stanley," Bill is mumbling, hesitantly taking a few steps forward and reaching out to pull Stanley inside by his wrist. Stanley confides, Bill shuts the door behind him, instantly letting go of him. "I-I'm.. sorry about t-this, ruh-really." Bill takes the corner of the closet again, respectfully keeping his distance. Stanley appreciates the gesture.

 _You're ruining my life_ , Stanley wants to say, but it's not true. Really, all Bill has done is confuse the hell out of him.

"Do you not have any other ways to get food?" His voice comes out much quieter than he expected it to, ready to cut the ties. Bill is new, completely out of routine, but he's pernicious. His father is right— or at least the voice in his head is. It's just better to stick to the things you know, and you won't have to worry about things like _this_. Things like _Bill_.

Bill begins to twist at his fingers nervously, an extremely worried look on his face. Stanley is filled with guilt instantly, but he can't take the words back, his fathers voice echoing warnings into his ears. "Yeah.." He exhales, "I nuh-know it's a lot to a-ask of you. W-We can.. I-I c-can.." Bill trails off, unable to finish.

"Are you sure?" Stanley's tone is desperate, now, as if Bill will go, ' _Oops!! Oh yeah, I just remembered I have another way to eat at home, sorry S-Stanley!'_ But he won't, and Stanley knows it. Bill shakes his head.

"Muh-My parents, uh.." Bill looks down, shaking his head. "I j-just don't."

It's silent after that, Stanley debating wether or not to say he's done. This _is_ scary, and overwhelming, but he can't just let Bill _not_ eat.

 _Why not?_ The voice in his head challenges.

 _Because who else on the planet will react the way I did? I didn't even tell anyone._ Stanley wants to laugh at the thought, but with Bill in front of him, he supposes he'll look insane. _He needs help, and I'm able to give it to him. It's that simple._

"Just.. one more time," Stanley gives in, "but only one more time."

"O-One m-more time?" Bill repeats, head whipping up to look Stanley in the eyes again. His eyes are so hopeful, so trusting, Stanley can't help but feel awful.

Stanley nods.

They both pause, unsure of what to do next.

Eventually Stanley turns his head to the side, pulling down the collar of his polo, allowing his neck to be exposed. He squeezes his eyes shut, again, bracing himself as he hears Bill begin to step towards him. Stanley backs against the wall, his free hand brushing the cheap paint that's already started to flake off onto his fingers. Bill puts his hands _somewhere_ , Stanley isn't certain, probably on the wall on either side of his torso.

It's not Bill's fault, but it almost makes him feel as if he's trapped. Maybe not literally, he could probably bolt right now if he wanted to. But figuratively, he couldn't just leave Bill to starve. Something's pushing him here, both of them here. He doesn't know what.

There's a hot breath on his neck, and Stanley almost gags when Richie's shrill voice comes back to haunt him. " _Yeah_ right. _And that's not a hickey!_ " It giggles.

Stanley's whole body jolts, his cheeks instantly heating up. "Wait—" Stanley chokes, and both of his hands rush up to Bills chest, pushing him away. Stanley whips his head up to look at him, who thankfully, hadn't hesitated to draw back.

"Wuh-What's wrong?" He asks, bright eyes full of concern. It does nothing to help Stanley's reddening blush.

"N-Not my neck." Stanley mumbles, averting his eyes. _Of course, Richie had to make this weird, as if it weren't weird enough._ "Do it somewhere else."

"Where?" Bill asks, taking his hands away from the wall. Stanley releases a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, then lets his hands drop to his sides.

"I don't know." He tries to readjust the collar of his shirt, but his hands are shaking too much. "Somewhere else." He repeats, eventually giving up and settling for brushing the nonexistent dust off of his shirt. His hands fall to his sides again.

"H-How about your w-wrist?" Bill proposes, sounding more desperate by the second, "Wuh-Was that f-fine last t-time?"

_Duh._

"I guess so." When he makes no effort to move, Bill slides his hand down Stanley's forearm, effectively entwining their fingers together. Stanley shivers at the touch, and the gesture feels so _sweet_ , he forgets what he'd been scared of for a second.

But Bill is pulling his arm out, fixated on his wrist, and the moment is broken. "T-Tell me if i-it s-starts to h-hurt?" He phases it more like a question rather than a statement, perhaps in fear of not wanting to sound nervous.

Stanley nods, squeezing his eyes shut once more, bracing himself for the impact. When it finally comes, he winces, a sharp hiss of pain escapes him. Okay, for some reason that hurt a _lot_ more than last time.

Bill's hold on his hand loosens, and the coldness of his fangs are quickly gone. "Suh-Sorry." He mutters, sounding almost breathless. "Want m-me to s-stop?"

Stanley opens one eye, and sure enough, Bill's chest is heaving. But that's not all. His face is flushed, looking pained, trying to restrain himself. Blood trickles down the side of his mouth. _Stanley's_ blood.

Stanley catches sight of his wrist then, open as bright red blood oozes down the side of it, the smell of copper filling the air and making it suffocating. The sight makes him feel lightheaded, and he quickly shuts his eyes again. Vomit starts to rise in the back of his throat, his stomach churning every time he takes a breath. "No, no. Do it." He gasps, " _hurry_."

"A-Are you okay?"

Truthfully, he is not. He's always been squeamish, when he was younger he was absolutely terrified of hurting himself because of it, but he thought he'd since grown out of it. As the image of his wrist still burns in his mind, and as the pain becomes suddenly overwhelming, he supposes he hasn't.

" _Doitalready_!" Stanley blurts, squeezing Bill's hand tighter.

Bill doesn't reply, but there's something pressing against his wrist after he says it, so that helps with his nerves a bit. He tries to steady his breathing, in, then out, just as his mother had taught him. In, then out.

 _'Focus on something else when it gets to be too much_.' His mother's voice reminds him. He's too nervous to try and remember when he had heard that.

So he thinks of birds. Specifically the cardinal from earlier, the one he and his dad had wanted to catch a glimpse of a while back. His father had gotten sick, and they couldn't go out to watch for one, so he'd ended up hanging out with Richie instead. His eye had been on the window all day, though, looking for that cardinal, and he could barely focus on Richie's jokes. Richie had probably noticed, because he'd asked Stanley if he wanted to hang out outside. They'd spent the rest of the day looking up at the clouds, the sky, the birds. No cardinal, but it was still fun. Every time a bird would appear, Richie'd whisper, ' _Is that it?_ ' And Stanley would reply, ' _No, be patient."_

The pain in his wrist subsides into a dull ache, but that might be because of the lightheadedness. Bill's doing something— it feels different, and then the pressure on his wrist is gone. Stanley hesitantly opens his eyes.

The first things he notices are their hands. Bill's fingers are almost _blue_ , after Stanley had been squeezing them so tightly. He quickly loosens his grip, guiltily, before looking down at his wrist.

There's no trace of blood.

All that's there are two red dots, identical to the ones on his other wrist. They sting, only a little, still so much better than what it was before. That hurt like hell. Stanley brings his arm closer to him, unable to look away as Bill draws his tongue over his bottom lip.

When Bill catches Stanley staring, he lowers his head bashfully, instead bringing his wrist up to wipe the corner of his mouth.

 _Shit_. Stanley averts his eyes, focusing on the shelves on the wall instead.

"Y-You okay?" Bill's asking, probably trying to break the awkward silence.

Stanley nods, unable to find the words to describe how he's feeling, a problem he'd never had until this situation. Feelings are straightforward and shouldn't be something you have to figure out, if you can't even figure out the emotion in your head then _there must be something wrong with you._

"You s-sure? You're k-kind of.."

"Really, I'm fine." He takes a deep breath, collecting his thoughts. The action immediately makes him feel a little better. "Just a little squeamish, I guess."

Bill's offering him a tiny smile, and if Stanley had it in him he might've tried to return it, but all he can think about right now is leaving. His cheeks feel too hot and all of this is so _embarrassing_.

Bill shifts, looking uncomfortable, then clasps his hands together behind his back. "I used t-to b-be, too. Until..well, y-y'know."

"Oh." Stanley clears his throat, the silence slowly becoming heavy and too much to bear.

"A-Anyway, thank you. Again. I don't nuh-know what I'd d-do without you." Bill says softly.

"You're.. welcome." Stanley mumbles, running his fingers over the bite. "Promise it's the last time, though?"

Bill swallows hard, but quickly nods. "Pruh-Promise."

“Great.” Something tells him it won’t be the last time.

He ignores it.

After a beat of silence, Stanley reaches for the door, but Bill quickly stops him, “Wait—“

He looks up at him with a curious expression, Bill stares back with a hesitant one.

“I juh-just wanted to s-say sorry. For all of t-this, I never meant to huh-hurt you, or drag you into t-thi—“

“It’s.. fine, Bill. Really.” Stanley keeps his eyes on Bill and reaches for the handle as he talks, pushing it open, wanting to finally  _go_ , “Really.”

As he steps out of that stupid storage closet for the last time, he doesn’t feel anything. No regret, no remorse, nothing.

And he supposes he’d like to keep it that way, and it will if that’s the last time he sees Bill. 

_If._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a different ending to this planned out but scratched it at the very last minute, sorry if this one seems kinda tacked on I’m a really awful writer lol  
> Thanks for the support though! Y’all should talk to me on my tumblr @saiion I really should learn how to work it


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